


Americans and the Fucking NHS

by gingerkitten2784



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied Work Sex?, Jamie Is A Creep, Other, Swearing, implied sex work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6533005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerkitten2784/pseuds/gingerkitten2784
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in modern day.  A number of years after Malcolm is released from prison.  While the first chapter is sweary Scottish men, OFC romantic interest and the eponymous Americans appear in chapter two on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is a good day to be Malcolm Tucker. Somehow his party has returned to power, with a Socialist at the helm. Obviously, given the choice, he'd have not put the current PM in charge. However, seeing as the man single-handedly brought him back into the fold, Tucker has no right to complain.   
Not only was he rescued from the hellishly boring depths of Irish politics, he now has dozens of new morons to shout at. The PM brought in a load of people from Washington to help with the NHS situation. Apparently, they all played important roles in the development and implementation of Obamacare, and the PM thinks their experience and outside perspective may prove useful. While Malcolm has his doubts, bollocking Americans sounds like fun. Maybe he can get one to pish himself. As he makes his way toward the Ministry of Health offices, he hears a familiar voice calling from behind him.

"He-hey, if it isn't everyone's least favorite ex-con. How'd prison treat ye, ya wee poofter? Still have your arsehole intact, or are ye'se lugging round a colostomy bag these days?"

"Jamie, how absolutely unnecessary to see you. And here I thought the new PM had brains for bringing me back. Now that I know he pulled you out of whatever wretched fucking cesspit you've been lurking in, I see I was mistaken." 

Malcolm tries to sound casual, but he cannot keep the bile out of his voice. He knew that his former protege had taken over the position of Director of Communications some years back, but he'd hoped not to run into him so soon. Jamie's actions during the Tom/Dan Miller mess had proven him untrustworthy, and everything Malcolm witnessed during his "exile" did nothing to change that opinion.

"Oh aye Malc, start right in with the barbs. Didn't ye get the lovely care package I sent?" he replies, feigning injury.

"Aye, I did. The bouquet of condoms was a nice touch. Everyone had a right laugh at that. You treacherous, dog-faced, hobbit."

"Just tryin' to look out for ye. I'm very generous like that, ya know. Even toward a corrupt, over-the-hill rent-boy with saggy balls." 

A wide, malicious smile spreads across Jamie's face.

"Oh aye. You do realize that you are now the personal fucking plaything of this saggy-balled rent-boy, don't ye? The PM saw the absolute shitstorm you were raining down over his Cabinet and got me on the first flight over from Dublin. He even set me up in a very nice hotel suite down the road. A bloody socialist brings in a disgraced spin doctor and gives him the star fucking treatment. That's how terrifying he finds the thought of you as Communications Director. Almost makes ye proud, doesn't it?" Malcolm inquires.

With each unfolding sentence, Jamie's shit-eating grin slowly transforms into a steely-eyed glare.

"And how is the Maison de Travelodge? Enjoy that stale croisssant and burnt coffee this mornin'? I'm sure those stiff cum-encrusted sheets made you feel right at home. Meanwhile I woke up to a fucking blowjob and full English breakfast, before walking into my office with the best Colombian coffee a twenty-something blonde cunt with more tits than brains can carry from the shop down the block."

"Oh, that's nice Jamie. Lovely to see that your views have progressed so much since the last time I saw you. No wonder the second our party returns to power, you're back where you were ten years ago. My. Little. Fucking. Bitch. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make some gormless, overweight American shite his tidy whities."

Knowing he's thoroughly put his former second in his place, Malcolm turns to leave.

"Wait. You're headed over the Ministry of Health?"

"Aye. Thought I'd start off gentle. Scaring Americans is like making an MP look stupid. Barely have to be conscious."

"So, what do you know about this lot from Washington?"

"What is there to fucking know? The PM thinks these pre-pubescent wank stains can fix the NHS clusterfuck, and I'm off to terrify them into not fucking it up."

"That's all?"

"What the fuck do you mean 'That's all?'. Of course that's fucking all. I'm goin' to shout at these arseholes. Grab another coffee. Bollock those useless cunts at International Development and then find my fucking office."

"Oh. This I've gotta see."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally meet the eponymous American(s)

Malcolm continues toward the Ministry of Health and hears Jamie following close behind. Deciding that his former protege is just trying to be obnoxious, he makes a point of ignoring him. This tactic seems to work, until he reaches the junction nearest the Health Ministry and hears raised voices. Behind him, Jamie actually titters.

  
"What did you say? No - really - what the fuck did you just say to her?"

*mumble*

Malcolm turns the corner and sees a woman in well-fitted, if slightly too casual business attire towering over a seated man who, if standing, would dwarf her by a head and a few stone. Though her voice is raised, her face retains an outward calm.

As the man tries to stutter through an explanation, Malcolm hears Jamie snickering behind him:

"Oh. Here we go. She's gonna rip his bollocks off and cram them down his fucking throat. You're gonna love this, Malc." he says with more excitement than seems appropriate.

"Fuck off, ye cunt-nugget." he replies, though without any real venom.

"Look at me. Look me in the eyes so I know, you know, I'm serious. I don't give a fuck about where the fuck you went to school, who your useless cum-rag of a daddy is, or whose tiny, prematurely-ejaculating cock you had to suck in order to get this job. If I hear you make one more comment about America, Americans, or anything fucking else that seems even remotely disparaging towards anyone, do you know what I'm gonna fucking do?"

"No - no ma'am."

"I will rip that stupid tongue out of that gormless fucking face of yours, and shove it directly up your pale, flabby arse. That way, no one has to listen to the asinine shite spilling from that collection of five misfiring fucking neurons you call a brain. D'y'understand the situation?"

"Ye-ye-yes ma'am."

"Good. Now learn some goddamn fucking manners, you USELESS ENGLISH CUNT!"

She shouts the last three words roughly six inches from the man's face.

The woman turns to the rest of the department.

"That threat applies to all of ye's. Americans, Brits, whatever. This department is already a fucking disgrace. Otherwise, I wouldn't fucking be here. Keep your petty bullshit prejudices to yourself, or get the fuck out."

She glares around the room, trying to make eye contact with as many members of staff as possible.

"Tell me that isn't the sexiest thing you've seen all day. I've got half a chub just fuckin' standing here. What I wouldn't do to have her give me a right bollocking. Then maybe let her shout at me a bit after, eh?" Jamie whispers to Malcolm.

Malcolm gives him a disgusted sidelong glance, but says nothing. Admittedly, he does find the sight of this woman rendering her subordinate a gibbering mess rather provocative, but he'd never admit it to the man behind him.

After completing her glare around the room, the woman's tone becomes honey.

"Right. Well, thank you for your attention everyone, and apologies for the disturbance. If we can make some headway on the website registration issues by Friday, there shall be pie on Monday. Lemme know if you've got any questions, I'm around."

Everyone returns to their work and the woman makes to head for her office, but stops in her tracks. Malcolm sees Jamie approach her.

"Fee, my favorite ginger American! How are you today beautiful?"

"The fuck do you want, ya creeper? I fuckin' told you last week, if y'only come 'roun' here to awkwardly flirt at me, I got no qualms about beating the ever-loving shite out your obnoxious midget arse." the odd hint of accent Malcolm caught before as she tore into the hapless Englishman has turned into a full-fledged Northern Irish brogue as she attempts to set Jamie straight.

"Oh Fionuala. Do you really think so little of me? Today I visit for business, not pleasure. Well, not entirely, but you know what I mean." Jamie replies, attempting to look down the woman's top.

"I swear'e God. If you don't get to the fucking point-"

"Alright. Alright. No need tae get yer panties in a bunch. I'd gladly do that for ye, ya know." he replies with a leer. "Dunno if you'se heard: there's a new Director of Communications. Who, oddly enough, is the old Director of Communications - very old in fact."

"Finally. E'eryone in the Cabinet has been whinging 'bout you for weeks. Too bad he didn't knock you out on yer arse at the same time."

_Oh, I like this one._ Malcolm thinks.

Malcolm chimes in at this point: "That's on me, I'm afraid. Gotta keep someone around to do all the really shite jobs. Who better than a bottom-feeding cum wad like Jamie?"

"Good point Mr. -"

"Tucker, Malcolm Tucker. D'ye mind if we take this in your office. There's a couple things I'd like to discuss - without an audience"

"Of course, this way."

Malcolm follows behind the woman and hears Jamie fall into step behind him. As they approach the door, he manages to get far enough ahead that when Jamie reaches the door, Malcolm has closed it directly in the shorter man's face. He grins slightly, and turns to face the woman.

"So, the infamous Malcolm Tucker. What can I do for you today?" she asks

He knew starting at the Ministry of Health was a good idea. While this one has a sharp tongue, she's still American...and Irish. He's spent the last three years tearing apart Dublin Pols - this almost doesn't seem fair.

He decides to start off gently, lull the woman into a false sense of security, and then let loose with an ungodly bollocking. A maelstrom of swearing and (not entirely) idle threats of violence. Ending on an offer of an open door if the need for help arises, with just enough of an edge that the bitch would be a complete moron to take him up on it, unless absolutely necessary.

"I think I should be asking you that question, Miss -"

"Just call me Fee. Everyone else does." she says with a grin.

"Right. Fee. As I understand it, you have little experience of the inner workings of British Governance; having spent most of your career in Washington."

"More or less, aye."

"Well, I'd like you to know that the NHS situation is a major priority for the administration, and myself. The PM has placed a great deal of trust in you. It is my job to ensure that trust is not misplaced. Therefore, I would like to make it clear what will happen if things in this department not work out to his liking. Should your department not resolve this situation adequately, I intend to hold you personally responsible. In fact, if anything should happen to fall out of line by even a millimeter, I will come down here, pin your asymmetrical fucking face down on that ugly piece of shite IKEA desk there, and violently fuck the stupid out of you. Which, considering your years of experience in DC, ought to take a fucking while. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal. But, might I give you a small tip?"

"What." Malcolm responds icily.

"The next time you want someone to perform a job to perfection, don't offer them the exact thing they want, should they fail. It creates quite the conundrum for the person on the receiving end." she says plainly.

Malcolm is dumbstruck. The pair stand in silence for a moment staring at one another, each waiting for the other to speak.

_A knock at the door._

"Yes. Is it important?" Fee calls out, never breaking eye contact.

The door opens and the head of a young woman pops into view. 

"Yes ma'am, the designers and tech guys are here. Shauna set them up in the conference room. They made a point of saying that they have other appointments after this. In fact they made it quite a few times." the head says.

"Ah. I see." replies Fee. "Well, Mr. Tucker, it seems I have to run. Though I would like to assure you that my people and I shall do our utmost to complete this project to the PM's satisfaction. And yours as well, I hope." she adds with a wink. "Thank you for stopping by."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm gets a late night phone call...

Late that night Malcolm lies in his comfortable (but-not-too-comfortable-as-it's-paid-for-by-taxpayer-funds) hotel bed, reviewing the information he gathered throughout the day. Though he has seen his party through worse times, they weren't much worse...and he did ultimately serve time for it. As the vague existential dread generally felt by all Scots recedes, to be replaced with a tsunami of more specific dread, his phone rings.

Not the room phone, his work phone, or his personal line; but his Personal Line. 

Admittedly, a call on that line at this time of night would not generally raise alarms. However, anyone who has this number would have made arrangements previously. He never got unexpected calls on this phone at this time of night.

He picks up the device. Unlisted number. He considers not answering, but curiousity overtakes him.

"Hello."

"Good evening, Mr. Tucker." a sultry voice purrs. Again, not unusual for this line.

"Who is this?"

The voice snickers quietly.

"I found our conversation this afternoon very - intriguing. I think you did as well. I'd rather hoped we could continue it - without - interruption."  
From her greeting, Malcolm couldn't identify the caller. However, these few additional phrases, a distinct medley of Northern Irish and Mid-Atlantic American leaves no doubt in his mind.

"Fionnula."

"Malcolm."

"How did you get this number?" he asks, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice. Very few people know about this line. Even fewer know the number. The idea of any of them speaking to someone in the government sends a chill through his body.

"While you, dear sir, are undoubtedly a master of the Dark Political Arts, you can hardly believe yourself a lone practitioner."

"At this level, I fucking am."

_*Another quiet snicker*_

"Then perhaps you oughtta your game, gorgeous."

For the second time today, Malcolm feels thrown off. Women like her don't flirt with him, and they certainly don't call him 'gorgeous'.

"Perhaps I should."

_*Annoyed sigh*_

"If I make an effort to allay your fears, will you play along?"

"What are you on about?"

"The person that gave me this number is an old friend. In giving it to me, she has just as much to lose as you. You should know she speaks quite highly of you. Considering the context...and the woman, you should be very proud."

Malcolm's mind races. He mentally flips through a dozen faces: all wearing heavy make-up and sultry expressions. In short order, he settles on one.

"Melanie told you." he tries to state as confidently as possible.

"And she thought ye'd have forgotten her."

"You don't forget a woman like that. What's she up to these days?" he asks casually, trying to regain some control of the conversation.

"Social worker. Ge'in married in October."

"Lucky man."

"Not exactly. The invites say 'Melanie and Rosin'."

"Huh."

Malcolm's thoughts begin to wander. Memories of his former favorite escort flash across his mind, interspersed with images of her using her considerable talents on her fiancee. Before his thoughts can stray further, Fee's voice cuts in.

"I rang her today. She offered to give me a list of numbers for you, but once I explained my motivations for getting this one, she changed her mind."

"I see. That still doesn't explain how you know about all of this in the first place."

"Meli was a sort of...mentor...back when I lived in Dublin" her tone tells Malcolm everything he needs to know. 

"So, you..."

"Aye. My Master's Project at uni focused on increasing access to healthcare and other government services for at-risk populations. In order to understand their needs, I decided to take a hiatus from schooling, and live among them. That's how I met her."

"You dropped out of university and became a hooker, in order to do research for your degree."

"Aye."

"Huh."

"Got pretty good at it too."

"Oh?" Malcolm feels a jolt through his body. This conversation is proving extremely - interesting.

"Aye, so I did. Now that you know I'm not out to ruin your life; are you going to be a little more fun, or should I just ring someone else?"

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Why?" he asks warily.

"Why you, you mean?"

"Aye. Why me? I must have a good 20 years on you."

"22, actually."

"So, why me?"

"Maybe I like powerful men. Maybe I have daddy issues. Maybe I've got a thing for sweary men with funny accents and silver hair. Or, maybe I'm just sick of the obnoxious 20-something douchebags, and skeevy married men that seem to infest every government bureacracy, and I want something different. Take your pick" 

"Why not go out to a bar, or join a dating site?" Malcolm asks, already knowing the answer.

"You know as well as I do, jobs like this take everything. Free time is for other people. Now tell me, what are you wearing?" her tone changes from matter-of-fact and slightly annoyed to lustful in an instant.

"Same thing you saw me in earlier, sans jacket."

_*Exasperated Sigh*_

"Well, that's a start. What can I do to get you to lose a few more items of clothing?" Fee inquires playfully. 

"You can get off the line, so I can finish my work and go to sleep."

"Ouch. No fun."

"Sorry, love. Never put out on the first phone call." says Malcolm.

"Prude." she replies, with a chuckle.

"G'night Fee."

"G'night Malcolm."

After hanging up, and placing the phone on the nightstand, Malcolm tries to return to his notes. Alas, he finds his concentration lacking. Despite his best efforts, all he can think about is trying to make sense of that phone call. Surely, it must be a joke.

He checks the time (2:39 am), and makes one final attempt to organize his notes. Upon failing spectacularly, he concedes defeat and decides to finish up in the morning. In short order, he drifts off to sleep; his dreams filled with curvy women getting very friendly with one another.


End file.
